


light the fire

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Nothing happpens just . gay old men very in love., Some references to Loguetown but mostly vague timeline., i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24132331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: “Hey, Hawkeye, I’ve been thinking,”
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	light the fire

**Author's Note:**

> (takes another line from Ares) yeah that's fine that's a title let's go let's g

It’s the way he moves, Shanks thinks, all sharp turns of the shoulder and fast, rare quirks of the mouth. Heel and leg, a hard swing and a fast pivot, angles made liquid smooth and graceful enough to allow time itself to curtsy around a lethal elbow, a slow-curling finger. The way his shoulders jolt when Shanks eagerly passes him a pint in the low-lit bar of Loguetown, the way he manages a playful smile as he runs his hands along the rope swaying from the ceiling of the establishment so far beyond his tastes that his aura of handsome grace is jarring to the roughened men reclining in the bar’s corners like a thick mold. It melts him, organs tumbling into themselves into a warm, jubilant slurry, lubricated with poor quality booze and the sound of laughter. 

The way they’d  _ fought _ , hard and fast and everything at once, ground and sky screaming out for them, bruises on pale skin that makes Shanks itch to lay more, lay any sort of claim on the man before him that he could manage. In the slow travel of his hands as he unsheathes Yoru, delicate despite veins twitching and hammering along alabaster wrists, the rumble of excitement that licks a path of keen light up every exposed inch of skin. He’s positively glowing. And then those same hands, a barely calloused thumb swiping soft over the ridge of Shanks’ cheekbone to cast a fat tear aside even as he’s snotty and incoherent under his palms, babbling himself hoarse and reaching up to yank urgently, incessantly along his collar, pawing at his sheathed kogatana and streaking the polished metal with messy fingerprints. (Good, something deep in his belly tells him.)

The ease in which he turns his sword, bombastic swings that streak wind itself with their fantastic arcs, and the hint of a hesitant tremor crawling his frame when he catches Shanks’ eye across a turbulent field. Hardly anything, but enough for the admirer, even with the world stretching wide and yawning between them. 

The way he tips his head back to drink, the jump of his Adam’s apple and the way his eyes narrow to pleased little slits. The way he rolls over himself in the morning, loose and languid until Shanks presses a kiss to those lowered eyelids, letting his lashes flutter against his sparse facial hair until he groans in annoyance, shooting a hand out to press hard on the soft skin of Shanks’ inner elbow and collapse the captain onto the man beneath him. 

Maybe it’s the eyes, molten gold when they crack open, strict rings of voided black spanned by stretches of pure sunlight (just for him, he thinks, the frigid metal only warming under his tactful touch), warmth that suffuses down to every inch of Shanks, setting his fingertips tingling with the urge to hold, cradle, burn, _ touch.  _ Something cool in them, too, goosebumps and the passing of a chill. The stillness there, unwavering even as he splits the clouds. Shanks doesn’t consider himself near eloquent enough to begin to describe it. 

Or maybe his voice, even and sure, level where Shanks pitches hard and colorful, the way merriment slips in on the edges with a cajole. The kiss of fondness, voice creaking to accommodate for the berth of his affections as he runs careful fingers over the curve of Shanks’ scalp and mutters to him. The control there is different, something innate rather than the measured speech of politics; an earnestness, a  _ lack _ of intention there that makes his cool stoicism and rumbling baritone truly enchanting.

The beard, neatly trimmed and soft against lips, tongue. The handsome path it guides from his marble jawline and up into his fringe, practically made to trace with a nuzzle. 

The hands, the mouth, the shadows in the hollow of his throat and between each punctuated rib, pale skin catching the golden light his blades throw, everything, everything. 

“Hey, Hawkeye, I’ve been thinking,” Shanks’ footsteps are silent through the former Shikkearu castle’s stone halls, but it’s not enough to keep his presence from Mihawk, who doesn’t flinch when Shanks loops a merry arm around Mihawk’s waist and presses his chin to his shoulder. 

“Well, that’s no good,” he says, tilting his head to let Shanks nose against the veins in his neck, run closed lips over the soft skin there. The ease makes Shanks giddy and he gives Mihawk’s waist a happy little squeeze, smiling cheerily against him. 

“Well, you know,” Shanks continues, undeterred, “I’m, like,  _ really  _ in love with you.” Mihawk squeaks at that, a tiny small-rodent noise that grinds from the back of his throat, only audible to Shanks by his proximity to the warlord. Shanks presses a kiss to his throat, torn between his gentle nudging and leaning forward to catch the edge of the other’s smile, and Mihawk lets his elbow do an awkward bend so he can knit his fingers with the hand resting on his hip. 

“But what do you see in me, huh?” The yonkou asks, flicking his tongue out to lick a wet stripe up the back of Mihawk’s earlobe (this earns him a sharp warning press of the heel from Mihawk, right over the leather strap of his obnoxious sandals). Mihawk’s shampoo always smells so nice, clean and neutral, just barely floral. 

Mihawk’s torn between a couple quips, stiffened by the intimacy, but opts to squeeze their joined hands and bark a quiet laugh instead, “Would you like me to show you?” 

Shanks can hear the wry tilt of the mouth as the laughter dies, the gentle crinkle of the eye, and it makes his pulse jackrabbit beneath his skin. “The one time I’m  _ not _ coming on to you.” He meets the other’s laughter with his own, bordering on an obnoxious volume from where he hovers at the base of the warlord’s neck, shifting a little to sway at Mihawk’s back in a cheery display of the happiness settled in his gut. 

“And yet you aren’t the type to reject it,” Mihawk says, head ringing with his lover’s laughter. 

“‘Course not, Hawkeye,” he twirls Mihawk around so they’re chest-to-chest and flush, an easy dance made clumsy with lightness, a happy knock of the ankles and knees that leaves them tangled in each other’s arms. Mihawk’s smiling, leaning up the world’s most important centimeter to offer a chaste kiss. It takes everything in Shanks to not heap them both onto the floor right there. 

“You do know me so well,” he laughs, wriggles his arm loose to hook around Mihawk’s neck, the other man taking the hint to hitch his arms under the muted print of Shanks’ pants and take the man into a carry-hold. 

“That must count for something,” he muses. He presses a cheeky kiss to Mihawk’s cheek (strained ever so slightly with a smile), sandals flapping as his ankles swing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and super, super cliche piece that's just been collecting dust in my drafts but like. It's something. 
> 
> Also, real big fan of Shanks being one of those people who needs to, like, wiggle out his happiness (him squeezing Mihawk, the swaying, haha). ALSO, MY ASS TAKING ANY OPPORTUNITY TO HAVE MIHAWK PICK SHANKS UP? YEAH . 
> 
> Please leave a comment/concrit/something if you're up for it! I really appreciate it.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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